Tears Over Gasoline
by FLXGHTLESSWXNGS
Summary: Deleted scenes from Motel California (S3 E6). Events take place after Stiles saves Scott, and before Coach finds the two sleeping on the school bus.
1. Showers and Star Wars

"Scott?"

Stiles' voice was distant, though he stood on other side of the door.

"Scott?"

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Scott was vaguely aware of the sound. It normally would have pierced his senses life a knife. But right now he wasn't normal, couldn't distinguish words from noise. Not now.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

The thumps grew louder.

"I'm coming in, okay?"

The door swung open. Stiles rushed into the bathroom. His friend stood, fully clothed, watching the shower run.

"It works better when you stand under it," Stiles joked with more anxiety than amusement. Scott's shirt was still drenched with gasoline, and the smell sickened Stiles. It took him back to the sight of his friend holding a flare in shaky hands, saying he was better of dead. That they were better off with him dead. That Stiles could cope without him.

Scott McCall felt so low he was prepared to commit suicide, yet he was concerned about the wellbeing of _everyone else_.

He had spoken in an unnaturally even tone, each word perfectly enunciated. It was as though they had been rehearsed a million times before leaving his mouth. It was a lie Scott had told himself so many times that it was now his truth. He talked about killing himself like he was stating the colour of the sky.

Stiles breathed in then exhaled the dark images that filled his lungs and threatened to choke him up.

"Arms up."

Scott didn't move.

"Okay, buddy...we need to get this shirt off you, okay?"

His voice was strained, stretched across his nerves so thinly that it threatened to break. Stiles worked to steady his voice. It needed to be steady, stable enough to pull his friend from catatonia. Stable enough to support the weight on his brother's shoulders.

But it wasn't stable enough.

Scott's eyes were hard, yet unfocused, like they had been glazed over. It was as though Scott didn't register the figure in front of him.

Stiles pulled the shirt and jeans from his friend's rigid frame. His own outfit got soaked under the shower but that was okay. The stench of gasoline that clung to the boys' bodies swirled down the drain.

"So Star Wars is a great movie," Stiles chattered away nervously as he scrubbed his friend, "and no, Scott, it has zero relation to the television series Star Trek so don't try to-"

Scott began to breathe fast and shallow. It felt like his throat was tightening, that he couldn't get enough air.

"Come on man, I realise its incredibly sad that you can't distinguish between the two," Scott prattled on, trying to distract Scott from his panic attack, "but that's why you have me, bro."

Scott shut his eyes tight, let the darkness envelope him once more before meeting the warm light in his friend's eyes.

"Yeah, you heard. You have me, Scott."

Slowly, breathing got easier.

"Yeah, I know its a lot to take in," Stiles flashed a smile, "I am pretty awesome."


	2. Dance With Death

Once Scott had been rinsed off, Stiles covered him up with a towel. He could feel him shivering under his hands, though his skin was feverishly hot.

Scott could hear his own heart racing in time with each tremor.

"I got a couple shirts from the gift shop. They're pretty crappy but they stink marginally less than your old one."

Scott waited as Stiles rummaged through his backpack in the other room. He stared at his old shirt, laying on the floor. He remembered how he's saturated himself with gasoline, how the flame danced in the wind as he held it so close that he could feel the heat caress his skin. It felt nice.

He was ready to dance with death for a minute before the song came to an end. But then they came-Allison and Lydia and Stiles-with their fear and their pain and their love. And he realised that he couldn't dance without burning them along with him. Especially not Stiles who had stepped into the flammable pool, ready to drown in fire with his best friend. In that moment Scott felt so exposed, so weak because now he couldn't do it. He couldn't do it and the others had seen him with his guard down. Their gazes jabbed right through his armour, each one hitting a raw nerve. Scott pulled the towel tighter around himself.

Stiles returned to the bathroom wearing a Glen Capri tee and shorts. He held out an identical outfit in his hands.

"Thanks."

"It was buy one get one free so..."

"No," Scott said, "I mean thanks for..." The words caught in his throat, how could he say them without liking the taste of _suicide _on his tongue?

"Scott, I know what you meant, and the polite thing for me to say is you're welcome, but honestly you're-_its-_not. That thing tries that again and I will slap your possessed ass back to the land of living. Okay?"

Scott nodded the way he knew Stiles needed him to. But really it wasn't okay. _He_ wasn't.


	3. Druggie For Darkness

Scott made his legs move, and his lips smile, and his voice say "I'm fine" to his friends so many times. He had been exhausted when he slumped against the bus seat, but he couldn't sleep. He was the kind of tired that you couldn't sleep away.

Everyone else on the bus was asleep. Lydia insisted that no one slept in the hotel after "_what happened_". No one would say the actual words. No one wanted to hear them. Yet Scott craved _suicide_ so much it hurt. He was a druggie having a withdrawal after a hit of pure ecstasy. He knew it was wrong to want it. He had to be there for everyone. Not in the way he wanted to be: six feet under and unable to drag the people he loved into his shit. No, he had to be there in the way that would keep Stiles from burying himself along with him. Assuming Deucalion didn't personally shovel the grave.

Deucalion who murdered his mom. The others said it was a hallucination. Scott called his mom and she was fine, but it all still felt so real. It wasn't hazy like a dream. Scott had watched his mom fall to the ground like a rag doll with perfect clarity. Just because Deucalion wanted to toy with him she lay there, a shell of herself, covered in cold blood. Blood that would be on Scott's hands if he didn't find a way to stop the bastard.

A whimper threatened to escape from Scott's mouth. He bit down on his lip so hard the skin broke. The metallic taste of blood pooled over his tongue. The pain numbed him, dulled the ache in his chest a little but there was too much. A cry slipped out, Scott tried to muffle with his hand but it was too late. Stiles rubbed his eyes and squinted into the darkness.

"Scott?"


	4. Being Human

Scott tried to clear the lump in his throat before managing to speak in a hoarse voice.

"Go back to sleep, Stiles. I'm fine."

Stiles' eyes adjusted. He caught the glisten of tears in Scott's eyes.

"Talk to me, buddy."

"I'm fine, really."

Scott knew he sounded like a scratched record but what else could he say? Every inch of his brain was filled with the image of his mom's corpse.

"-wasn't just the thing that got in your head, was it?"

"What?"

Scott slowly registered that Stiles had been talking to him.

"Heat took the," Stiles gritted his teeth before forcing the words out, "suicidal thoughts away from Ethan and Boyd. But it couldn't take away what was already there. The trance brought out urges that were already there, Scott."

A pang of guilt ran through Scott as he saw the fearful expression on his friend's face. Stiles was human, fragile. Scott was supposed to be protecting him from Deucalion and everyone else and he couldn't even protect his best friend from himself. It was a joke. He was a joke.

I'm pathetic, Scott thought.

"I'm fine," Scott said.

"Yesterday you almost died."

"I'm fine."

"A part of you didn't want to heal, yesterday, because of Derek. Scott, that part of you was strong enough to physically stop your body from healing."

Scott didn't say anything. He didn't even buy his own lies anymore so how could he sell them to Stiles?

"You think you deserve to die, that you're Christ fucking 2.0 but you don't and you're not. You can't save us by sacrificing yourself."

"Then what can I do, Stiles?"

His voice was rough, dripping with frustration. Allison stirred in her sleep a little before placing a hand under her cheek and sighing lightly. Scott dropped his voice to a whisper.

"I can't save lives, I can't kill the people who take them and I can't die without hurting you. Stiles, what can I possibly do?"

Stiles pulled Scott against his chest, and wrapped his arms around him.

"You can be human," he murmured.

Scott fought the urge to break and lost it. He didn't have the strength to pretend anymore.

"I'm so tired, Stiles," he admitted "I'm so tired."

"I know, buddy, I know."

"I just want to sleep and never wake up. It would be easier that way, but I can't."

Scott looked up at his friend, his lashes wet and his eyes wide. Those eyes were so innocent, like a child's yet they held a darkness that said they had seen too much of the cruel world.

"Stiles, please," Scott whimpered, "I just want to sleep. I just wanted to sleep."

Stiles rocked back and forth slowly as though he were cradling an infant. And he was, Stiles realised, because under the werewolf there was a kid. A kid who had a nightmare where he saw his mom die. A kid whose life was an actual nightmare. Stiles stroked Scott's hair the way Scott had done many times after his own mother slipped away.

"Sorry," Scott apologised into Stiles' wet shirt.

"Hey, I'd take tears over gasoline any day."


End file.
